It was 1921, and the steamboat Seeley left a trail of white foam behind as it cruised the dark length of the Nile, bound for Cairo. For one poor soul, however, that destination was forever unreachable.

Sunlight streamed through the slats of the window into the tiny cabin, providing a shuddering spotlight for the body on the bed.

The man, if it indeed had been a man, had been burned to a blackened crisp of shrunken meat. The heat that had done the dirty deed had mysteriously touched only flesh, leaving both the bed linens and the man’s clothing untouched.

Charles St. Cyprian wrinkled his nose as he sank to his haunches beside the bed. He extracted a handkerchief from his coat pocket and shook it out, then pressed it to his mouth and nose in a belated attempt to kill the smell.

“Well?” someone said, brusquely.

St. Cyprian glanced over his shoulder at the speaker. “Off hand, I’d say he’s dead, Morris.”

Morris, the senior man from the Ministry, made a disgusted sound. He was egg-shaped and dressed in civil servant white in deference to the heat, and clutched a yellowed pith helmet in his sweaty hands. “Obviously. What I was inquiring, Mr. St. Cyprian, was whether or not you knew the circumstances of said death.”

“Ah.” St. Cyprian turned back to the body, briefly, and then stood, the steel rings which encircled three fingers on his left hand winking in the sunlight as he ran them through his hair. “In that case, no.”

St. Cyprian, in contrast to Morris, was Mediterranean dark and was dressed nattily in a tailored cream colored suit and waistcoat. The buttons of the latter were polished so brightly that Morris’s disapproving reflection was easily visible in them.

“No?” Morris said. “You have no idea how he died?”

“I didn’t say that.” St. Cyprian brushed a nonexistent fleck of lint from his sleeve. “I said the circumstances escaped me.”

“As do so many things,” another voice cut in.

St. Cyprian turned, lips quirking slightly. “Ambry, old bean,” he said, with patently false cheer. The narrow whip of a man who had entered the room behind Morris flinched slightly at the jocular familiarity.

“St. Cyprian.” Ambry was only a recent addition to Morris’ staff, but he’d already picked up on his superior’s distaste for St. Cyprian and learned to mimic it. “Going to pull a rabbit out of your-”

“Ambry,” Morris chided, though not sternly. “Have you seen to the men?” he continued, referring to the troop of British Army regulars they’d brought on board when they’d arrived.

“All picketed and accounted for,” Ambry said crisply. Like Morris he was dressed in civilian fashion, though much neater. His helmet fairly gleamed, and the polished butt of a service Webley marred the otherwise perfect cut of his coat. “No one is getting on or off this ship without our permission.”

“Boat,” St. Cyprian said. “What?” Ambry asked with a raised eyebrow. “It’s a boat, not a ship. A ship is an ocean going vessel.”

“You have a singular gift for useless information, St. Cyprian.”

“And you are generally useless, Ambry, me old mucker. We make a good pair.” St. Cyprian clinked his rings together idly.

Ambry grinned mirthlessly, his lips writhing back from too perfect teeth. “Harsh words from a second rate Svengali.”

“That’s enough Ambry,” Morris said. “Mr. St. Cyprian-”

“Were those windows always open like that?” St. Cyprian interjected, indicating the wooden blinds.

“As far as I know,” Morris said, blinking. “Why?”

“No reason. Just curious.”

A muscle in Morris’ jaw had a bit of a merry dance, and St. Cyprian felt a flicker of pity for the bureaucrat. But only a flicker. “He burned to death. Several hours ago, at least.”

“Twelve,” Morris grated. “But was it-” He made a sharp gesture.

“Was it what? Painful?” St. Cyprian heedlessly stuffed his handkerchief in the pocket of his coat. “I imagine so, yes.”

“Magic!” Morris barked. “Was it magic?” he said, more quietly.

Ambry made a face as soon as the word escaped Morris’ lips. St. Cyprian smiled. Ambry was a tight button man. If it wasn’t Eton approved, Ambry wasn’t a fan.

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Ready to escape to far away lands and fight dragons?? Want a good chilling horror tale to relieve some stress? Or just need a good ol' fashion fright or thrill? Then PRO SE PRESENTS FANTASY AND FEAR #3 is the magazine for you! Thrill to stories from Aaron Smith, Nancy Hansen, Lee Houston, Jr., James Palmer and others! Action comes fast and hard with another SOVEREIGN CITY tale from Derrick Ferguson! And noted pulp author Joshua Reynolds begins a new Monster Hunter series IN THIS ISSUE! Want to be afraid? Want to be adventurous? Then you want to pick up PRO SE PRESENTS FANTASY AND FEAR # 3 today in PRINT or EBOOK!!! https://stores.lulu.com/proseproductions

CONTENTS INCLUDE-

"The Meteor Terror" by James Palmer

A Rub of the Lamp" by Tommy Hancock

"Citadel of the New Moon" by Kevin Rodgers

"Sign of the Salamander" by Joshua Reynolds

"Desire of the Apprentice" by C.W. Russette

"The Day of the Silent Death-a SOVEREIGN CITY tale" by Derrick Ferguson

Lightning tore across the sky, briefly illuminating the gloomy scene below. Sovereign City Harbor was home to more derelict vessels than the average man could count and a pitiful stretch of shoreline did little to improve the look of the place. It was covered with washed-up debris, the dried bones of fish and several dozen broken bottles.

A well-built man lay facedown on the shore, his face turned to the side. A long streak of blood ran from his temple down his cheek and his eyes twitched continuously beneath their lids. He wore black trousers, a ripped white shirt and black loafers. His hair was more gray than brown, making him look older than he was, though a close examination of his features revealed that he was in his late twenties.

Again lightning brightened the beach and a loud crash of thunder seemed to permeate the haze surrounding the man’s brain. His eyes opened and he slowly pushed himself to his knees, looking slowly around. His breathing was measured and regular, though his jaw was clenched as if he felt some inner pain. With a grunt, he rose to his feet and staggered toward the city, one hand pressed tightly against his side. At least one rib, possibly two, had been broken, though he couldn’t remember how it had happened. In fact, he couldn’t remember anything at all – he didn’t know his own name or how he came to be here. He cast one quick glance back at the choppy waters but saw no nearby boats or ships from which he could have come. The vessels moored in the harbor were surely too far away, he mused.

Another rumble of thunder seemed to rock the ground upon which he walked. He momentarily lost his footing and slipped back to the moist earth. His fingers closed tightly around something as he sought to catch himself, something cold and metallic buried in the dirt. He brought it close to his face, peering through the darkness at it. A rain began to fall then, large drops that cooled his burning flesh.

He was holding a small medallion. A notch on the top indicated that it normally had a cord of some kind that ran through it, allowing its owner to wear it. It depicted a nude human man with an erect penis, bearing a sword in his right hand. His head was that of a roaring lion. On the back of the medallion were two words, a name that had been scratched into the surface with some sharp object: Lazarus Gray.

“You okay, pal?”

A policeman was approaching, pointing a flashlight directly at him. “I think so,” he answered hoarsely.

“Looks like you took a spill.”

“I hit my head while swimming to shore.” He wasn’t sure why he was lying, why he wasn’t telling the policeman that he didn’t know who he was or how he’d gotten there… but the lies came easily enough.

The policeman stopped a few feet away him, trailing the flashlight up and down the man’s body.

“I don’t think so, pal.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Your clothes ain’t wet.”

He looked down, cursing himself for not having noticed something so obvious. He slipped the medallion into his pocket and forced a smile. “Would you believe I’ve been on the beach long enough to have dried out?’

“How about you tell me your name?”

After pausing for a brief second, he uttered another lie and by doing so unknowingly set himself down a dangerous path. “My name’s Lazarus Gray.”

The officer’s eyes narrowed and he quickly threw a punch at the man who was now calling himself Lazarus. To his own surprise, Lazarus moved aside with practiced ease and threw up his hand to catch the policeman under the chin with a karate chop. He then gripped the man by the shoulder and pulled him close, driving a knee into the officer’s stomach. He finished him off with a backhand that sent one of the man’s teeth flying from his mouth.

Lazarus stood over the fallen man and realized that he wasn’t panting at all. He had reacted automatically, fluidly calling upon skills he hadn’t even known he’d possessed. He knelt down and searched the officer’s pockets, finding a black leather wallet that contained three dollars in cash, a driver’s license in the name of Arthur Redwood and a small photograph of a handsome man with gray-tinged hair, dressed in a tuxedo. Lazarus knew that this was a photo of himself, even though he couldn’t recall ever having seen his own face. He pocketed the photograph and stood up, having come to the conclusion that this man was not a police officer at all. Up close, his badge looked fake and there was nothing in his wallet to verify his position with law enforcement. Though he couldn’t recall how he would have known this, Lazarus also recognized that the gun in the man’s holster was not regulation issue.

Lazarus looked back toward the city and made his decision. He had to get away from here. Answers would come later but for now he had to keep moving. This man had intended to harm him, possibly even kill him. He couldn’t take the chance that this man was operating on his own: in fact, something told him that wasn’t the case at all. Lazarus stripped the man of his weapon, pushing the barrel of the gun into the front of his slacks. He pulled the tails of his button-down shirt out of his pants and let them hang, obscuring anyone’s view of the gun.

Sovereign City was as good place as New York or Chicago to either hide from enemies or conduct illegal business. The entire city had been corrupt for as long as anybody who lived there could remember, ever since the still unsolved murder of old Gervaise Ravel, the last honest mayor to hold office. Not that Sovereign City was all that bad a place to live in. The schools were nothing to brag about and the rich got richer while the poor stayed poor. But then again, that was pretty much the condition all over the country. The garbage got picked up on time and the graft got paid. So all in all, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been.

The collection of clip joints, bars and warehouses along the waterfront were alight with the usual unsavory motley polyglot of rogues despite the fact that the sun had gone down not more than a short hour ago. Some of the buildings looked as if they were only being held together by a heavy coating of grimy filth. The windows let in little light and considering the kinds of transactions going on inside, it was better that way.

The man sitting at a back booth of The Alabaster Flask had a stylish storm cloud grey Fortier fedora pulled low over his forehead, a calf-length trench coat the exact same shade as his hat covering his black tie evening suit. He poured himself another shot of blended whisky from the bottle at his elbow and eyed the entrance warily. He plucked back the cuff of his black Italian kidskin leather glove to look at the Swiss Army Infantry watch on his left wrist. His contact was fifteen minutes late. I’ll give him another five minutes and then-

The main door of the establishment swung open and conversations in the room briefly dropped to a rumbling hush as hands went to guns, no matter if they were openly holstered or hidden. The newcomer was surveyed and since he owed no one there money or hadn’t produced a weapon of his own, he was not shot and he walked on to the booth in the back.

“You’re late, Korbel.”

Anton Korbel shrugged. “For what I have, you would have waited.”

The man toyed with his shot glass. “And what exactly is it that you have?”

Korbel sat down, amusement on his swarthy face. “Ah, my friend, this is not how Anton Korbel works. You have something to show me first, do you not?”

The man held up a thick envelope. “Your money is in here. Five thousand dollars. But you don’t get it until you answer a few questions.”

Korbel shrugged. “Maybe I can, maybe I can’t. Ask.”

“There’s a woman I am looking for. A woman who is very important to me. I want her back. I want to know who has her. I want you to tell me. Do so and you will have made an easy five thousand dollars.”

Korbel looked impatient. “Let us be frank with each other, okay? I agreed to meet with you because I thought I could make some quick money. But the people behind your friend disappearing are too powerful for me to monkey with. You haven’t been here in Sovereign that long so you don’t know who you’re playing with.”

The man shrugged and sighed. He leaned forward. “Korbel. Listen to me carefully and closely. Because I need you to understand that I mean what I say. I’m prepared to do some seriously impolite atrocities upon your person if that will help get my friend back. I implore you not to force me to have to resort to such uncivilized behavior.”

Korbel’s eyes couldn’t have gotten any larger. “I had heard you were a most reckless and foolish young man. Now I suppose we will have to do this the hard way.” Korbel raised his voice. “Hey! HEY! Listen up, everybody!”

Conversation died as the assemblage of men and women turned to look at Korbel.

“This twit’s got five thousand bucks on him. Anybody who helps me cut it out of him gets ten percent.” Korbel jumped up from the table and backed away, grinning maliciously.

Men shuffled to their feet as knives and machetes, their edges glittering in the dim light were produced. The entrance was slammed shut and secured with a thick wooden bar. Women sensuously licked their painted lips at the prospect of watching murder being done.

Seriously, although there are enough advantages to the Twenty-First Century to make it, technically, the best time in human history to be alive, nothing about that fact says that I have to like the essence, the feeling of living now. Yes, we live longer thanks to improvements in medicine. We’re more comfortable on a daily basis than ever before because of our technology, which I wouldn’t want to give up completely. We have faster

access to more kinds of information than ever before, and that’s a great thing. If we look at it from that angle, then the present is a pretty good time to be alive.

Still though, in some ways, I prefer the past. Not the distant past, for that was much too dangerous and primitive for the tastes of anyone who wants any kind of civilized existence, but the fairly recent past looks awfully good from where I’m sitting. My love for the past even shows up in the way I phrase things sometimes, not that I do it intentionally. Look, for instance, at how I began this little description of my opinion. I said ‘The present stinks!’ I could have said it ‘sucks,’ but that would smack of the contemporary casual usage of profanity that wasn’t there a few decades ago. I’m not an old man, though some seem to think I act like one, curmudgeonly and cranky. I’m barely into my thirties, but even that’s old enough to remember a time when six year olds didn’t toss around curses like they were scarred and tanned old sailors. There is no profanity that’s worth its weight in offensiveness any more, since it’s all so overused.

I miss people’s respect for privacy too. Nobody seems to value it anymore. The quiet that we all used to have sometimes, the time to stop and think. The times when we could be just a bit isolated for just a few hours. I, for one, have no desire to be in constant contact with anyone. Not through perpetually blabbing into a cell phone, not by texting, not by any means. It’s not that I don’t like people. It’s just that I don’t need to be talking to them at every waking moment.

Maybe it’s just my natural eccentricity, but I like to, sometimes at least, feel like I’ve stepped back in time just a blink or a decade or half a century. Stepped back to a time that seems cleaner, more innocent; even if it’s only that way through pretended rose-colored glasses. A time more elegant and somehow purer. The Forties, Fifties, Sixties, even the Seventies and Eighties have a sort of appeal to me. An attraction that calls out to me like a magnet or a movie poster that makes me want to see that film and get lost, if only for a few precious and surreal hours, in an era that I just missed by what amounts to only an ounce of fluid in the deep and rapid river of time.

Friday, January 21, 2011

If you are writing an already approved SERIES for Pro Se Productions, then you will continue to send in your stories as you have been sending them. If you are writing a stand alone new story or proposing a new series as of today (1/21/11) all of these submissions need to go to BARRY REESE at aric_dacia@yahoo.com Again, series already approved and/or in progress, continue as you are. New stand alone stories and series, send to Barry Reese.

AP: Kevin, welcome to ALL PULP! First, can you tell us about yourself, some personal background?

KR: I’ve been writing stories since I was 6 years old. I remember when my parents let me use their typewriter. I created a series called “The Ancient Tomb”. Each episode would end with a cliff-hanger that would be resolved in the next installment. I included a synopsis and front cover art work for each one. I’d distribute them to my grandparents and other relatives. It was fun! Over the years, my stories got longer and more complicated. I’m 39 years old now, and I can still remember writing “The Ancient Tomb” stories and realizing just how much I enjoyed writing.

AP: As a writer, what influences have affected your style and interests the most over the years? Do you have a particular genre/type of story you prefer to write?

KR: I enjoy writing fantasy and dark fiction, or horror. Some of my work contains science fiction elements. As a boy, I was fascinated by “The Tell Tale Heart” and “The Fall of the House of Usher” by Edgar Allan Poe. A 1978 miniseries based on Stephen King’s novel, ‘Salem’s Lot, also left a lasting impression on me. I’ve always been a big fan of comic books as well, and “The Green Lantern” is still at the top of the list in that category. I was always amazed by how such enormous powers could be contained in a ring! In the last few years, I’ve become intrigued by the work of Arthur Machen and H.P. Lovecraft.

AP: What about genres that make you uncomfortable? What areas within pulp are a little bit intimidating for you as an author?

KR: I’d say I’m most intimidated by mysteries, due to the fact that I haven’t tried it much. I gave it a try with a story called “Tomahawk Mountain”, which I recently submitted to Pro Se Productions. I hope I did a good job! But until I get more comfortable with that genre, I think mysteries will intimidate me the most.

AP: Are you a pulp fan? If so, how has that affected you as a writer of pulps. If you aren’t a longtime fan, then why pulp?

KR: As mentioned earlier, I’m a big fan of comic books, specifically “The Green Lantern”. I love the fast-paced action and the outlandish situations! I think the original “Star Wars” trilogy and the “Indiana Jones” films also got me hooked on action and adventure. Another film that resonates with me is the original “Batman” movie with Jack Nicholson, Kim Basinger, and Michael Keaton.

AP: What do you think you bring to pulp fiction as a writer?

KR: I want my stories to resonate after the final page has been turned. I try to keep the stories fast-paced and free-flowing, which I think is an important element of pulp. I want to place my characters in bizarre situations that will leave the reader wondering: “What would I have done in that situation?”

AP: Your work has been published recently with PRO SE PRODUCTIONS in their various magazines. First, tell us about HELLHOUND, both about the story and what inspired you?

KR: At the facility where I’m employed, there is an officer tower. There are rumors that strange things happen on the sixth floor of the tower (unexplained footsteps, odd music, and radios that turn on without warning). After hearing some of these rumors, I had a nightmare in which I stepped off an elevator, became paralyzed, and felt electricity flowing through my body. I woke up, jotted notes on a piece of paper, and finished “Hellhound” two days later. Many of my ideas come from dreams, but none have ever been as vivid and disturbing as the one that resulted in “Hellhound”.

AP: You wrote an interestingly titled tale that was published recently by PRO SE. What can you tell our readers about DEMOLITION?

KR: “Demolition” resulted from a much shorter dream, which involved a recurring image of a wall in a basement…that was infested by a swarm of insects. Before I had this dream, I’d been brainstorming about having a character trapped in the basement of a house while it was being demolished. I decided to incorporate the insect wall into that idea…and then it only took me three days to finish the story. Originally, I wanted the title to be “Wrecking Ball”, but I changed it at the last moment.

AP: What is your creative process as far as creating a story and writing? What techniques or steps do you take?

KR: Sometimes I like to go all out and create an outline and synopsis before I get started. But lately, I’ve just been pulling up MicroSoft word on my computer and going with the flow. I think I’m learning that making a story so structured and pre-planned isn’t always best…because being spontaneous allows the story to grow on its own. And I always have to listen to music when I write. Sometimes it’s Beethoven and sometimes it’s Three Days Grace. I was jamming to Nine Inch Nails when I wrote “Demolition”.

AP: What’s coming from Kevin Rodgers? Any projects you want to discuss?

KR: I recently submitted two of my stories, “The Citadel of the New Moon” and “Tomahawk Mountain”, to Pro Se Productions. Hopefully they’ll appear in the months to come! I reworked a couple of old, unpublished stories and submitted them to Dark Valentine Magazine and Weird Tales Magazine. I’m working on a few projects that I hope to complete soon and submit to Pro Se Productions. At the same time, I am polishing and editing a huge novel (900 manuscript pages) that will hopefully generate some interest!

﻿Pro Se Productions announced today that yet another talented writer, creator, and editor in the Pulp field has joined the Pro Se staff. Pro Se recently announced the promotion of one of its magazine line editors, Barry Reese, to position of Submissions Editor. This left a vacancy as far as Line Editor for the MASKED GUN MYSTERY magazine imprint. Until now.

Pro Se Productions Editor in Chief Tommy Hancock announced today that writer/creator Frank Schildiner will be the Line Editor for PRO SE PRESENTS MASKED GUN MYSTERY as of today. Schildiner is a Pulp writer with several solid credits to his name, including stories for Airship 27 Productions in various volumes, such as the recently released RAVENWOOD, STEPSON OF MYSTERY, as well as past volumes of SECRET AGENT X and THE BLACK BAT. Schildiner has also penned stories based on Jean Kariven for volumes of TALES OF THE SHADOWMEN from Black Coat Press. Schildiner's latest story, a character of his own creation entitled LEE COHEN, MONSTER MOBSTER debuts in MASKED GUN MYSTERY #3 in February from Pro Se Productions.

When asked about his new position and his plans for the Imprint, Schildiner said, "My first thought was this was a huge honor. Editing a pulp magazine is a dream come true, even if it is a daunting task. As to the future, I'm looking forward to finding and promoting all new pulp heroes from current writers and continuing the pulp explosion that's happned the last few years."

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

PRO SE WELCOMES NEW SUBMISSIONS EDITOR

Tommy Hancock, Editor in Chief of Pro Se Productions, announced the creation of a new position within its company today. "Although Pro Se is still in its infancy," Hancock stated, "we are definitely growing quickly. Wonderfully, a part of that growth is a continuing and increasing number of writers showing interest in writing for our magazine line and actually submitting proposals and even complete stories for possible publication. This has been a duty I've handled as EIC since our inception, but due to other commitments within the company, the time has come to turn this duty over to someone else. To that end, I would like to announce the creation of the position of Submissions Editor within Pro Se. This individual will focus on all submissions coming in from this point on for our magazine line. At this time, I will continue to oversee the submissions for anthologies and book length manuscripts."

"This position," Hancock continued, "needs to be filled by a person with a few qualifications. The Submissions Editor not only needs to have a good handle on what generally qualifies as Pulp, but also be able to identify what falls within the parameters of Pro Se. We work with a broad brush, but still we're looking for particular kinds of stories. This person will also need to be able to identify what's ready for publication upon submission and what may need a little help and grooming before publication. It also wouldn't hurt if this person was someone known to the Pulp community and with a good reputation as a writer and in all things pulp related. That's why I'm proud to say that Barry Reese is now the Submissions Editor for Pro Se Productions."

Reese, noted pulp author and creator of The Rook, Lazarus Gray, and the writer of novels including RABBIT HEART and the recently released THE DAMNED THING, formerly served as one of Pro Se's Magazine Line Editors, handling editing chores for MASKED GUN MYSTERY, one of the imprints of the PRO SE PRESENTS line. Reese's new position becomes effective immediately and Hancock stated that the search for a new Line Editor for MGM was already under way.

When asked to comment on what his plans were for this position, Reese stated, "﻿Well, my intentions are to not only maintain the high quality that Pro Se's become known for but to really get out there and beat the bushes, looking for new blood. I think the best thing about Pro Se's products so far has been the way they've mixed established writers with newcomers -- it's very important to not only provide a venue for well-known types like Derrick Ferguson or Ron Fortier, but to also provide a nurturing starting ground for the next generation.

In terms of specifics, I'd love to see a wide range of submissions that cover all the genres of pulp: sword-and-sorcery, hardboiled P.I.s, masked vigilantes and everything in between!"

AP: Don, welcome to ALL PULP! First, can you tell us about yourself, some personal background?

DT: I was born in a small town in Tennessee, and my father was in the Air Force so we tended to move around a lot. Then my mom divorced him and married another guy that had a job where we moved around even more. And my older brother and I just got used to finding the closest library in the area we were in and reading as many of their books as they had to offer.

AP: As a writer, what influences have affected your style and interests the most over the years? Do you have a particular genre/type of story you prefer to write?

DT: This last year there seems to have been a serious clash of ideologies in America, and for that matter the ideologies of America clashing with the rest of the world. It’s like that old song “Something’s happening here.” Lots of tension and no one really knows what the final result will be.

I have always enjoyed Fantasy, as it was influenced by older legends and mythology. And my first love as far as what genre to write was Horror, and from time to time I like to go back to it. So I would say that both would be at the top of my list as far as the type of story I like to write. But with that said, I do enjoy tackling a genre or style that I’ve never done before, and one day I’ll eventually write a lowbrow slapstick comedic story, mainly because I haven’t as of yet.

AP: What about genres that make you uncomfortable? What areas within pulp are a little bit intimidating for you as an author?

DT: Not really one to get uncomfortable when it comes to genres. There’s some that I just haven’t done as much as others, and one is prone to be more comfortable writing in the genres that they are used to. And as far as my pulp writing I would probably have to say that Science Fiction oriented pulp is a little bit intimidating because I was such a fan of all the old 30’s to 50’s pulp Science Fiction writing that was done back then. And to me it just seems that those guys back then raised the bar pretty high.

AP: Are you a pulp fan? If so, how has that affected you as a writer of pulps. If you aren’t a longtime fan, then why pulp?

DT: Oh yeah I would say that I’m a pulp fan, and throughout my life I have run through several different styles and genres of pulp. And the majority of it has been very enjoyable to me. And as a writer it has a “in the trenches” feel to it, very dramatic with a quicker pace than the standard type of story from beginning to end.

AP: What do you think you bring to pulp fiction as a writer?

DT: I’m a storyteller, and have been all my life. If I’d been born in an earlier age before computers or even books for that matter, I would have been the guy sitting by the campfire keeping everyone else entertained with a good story. And that’s another thing, to me a good story is exactly that, it captures the interest of the reader, instilling in them a want to get to the next page to find out what happens next. So when I’m writing I like to keep that in mind.

AP: Your work has been published recently with PRO SE PRODUCTIONS in their various magazines. Can you tell a bit about THE BROTHERS JADE three part novella as well as MURDER IN THE GHETTO OF TRENTONIUM.

DT: THE BROTHERS JADE is a Fantasy story involving the beginning of the quest for the Drink of the Gods. And the drink is a magical brew that imbues upon the drinker immortality and possibly godhood. They are the ones foretold about in the sacred Prophecies of Michael Crucible. Earlier Michael Crucible, the greatest god of good in the world of Mythas sacrificed himself to finally defeat the Great Enemy, "He who should not be named". And both were undone by that sacrifice, resulting in a major power vacuum on the world stage, especially when it comes to the forces of good.

But luckily Michael Crucible left a series of prophecies that predicted that a group of adventurers that would come. And they would be charged with the responsibility of not only achieving the fabled Drink of the Gods, but also restoring the overall balance of power.

And if THE BROTHERS JADE is the story that deals with important events going on worldwide throughout all of Mythas, then the characters and setting of MURDER IN THE GHETTO OF TRENTONIUM is more of a different more localized story. It is more about the smaller picture in one particular city, and although it to is a Fantasy story, I would say that it is the more mundane of the two. Gim Bolt and Mohrian the Wizard are crime investigators for the city of Trentonium, and their specialty is going after murderous individuals whose crimes have brought them to the attention of the city guard for various reasons.

AP: These stories exist in the same universe, right? Do you have a thought out universe using these characters and will readers get more of this in upcoming issues of PRO SE PRESENTS or elsewhere?

DT: Yes both stories exist in the same universe. In fact several of the characters from MURDER IN THE GHETTO OF TRENTONIUM appear in the second novella installment of THE BROTHERS JADE. And yes the universe of Mythas has been pretty intensively thought out, and the plan is to reveal more and more details about this universe with all of my Fantasy stories that will be based in that setting.

AP: What is your creative process as far as creating a story and writing? What techniques or steps do you take?

DT: Before I start a story I’ll usually think a lot of the basic points of it out before I ever set pen to paper. And even than I’ll still usually come up with a least a basic outline of events, coupled with information about the major characters of each storyline. Then at that point I will think about the interlocking chain of events that will take the reader from the initial first steps down the road towards the eventual climax. And then I set down and start writing things out, with all of those various steps in mind. Although sometimes a story will take me down a road or avenue that I hadn’t expected originally.

AP: What’s coming from Don Thomas? Any projects you want to discuss?

DT: In the world of Mythas, even before the prophesized group from THE BROTHERS JADE, there were others that quested for the fabled drink of the gods. And they were a band of notorious villains that had a lot to do with tilting all of Mythas so dangerously close to being subjugated the remaining gods of evil. So there is not only a parallel to both stories, but also to a degree each interweaves with the other.

Besides that I am also working on another story involving Gim, Mohrian, and their tight knit group of friends as they try to counter an outside force attempts to organize into a formidable threat against the entire city of Trentonium. And this particular story will highlight other characters in the group, especially Storm the pit fighter.

And there’s also my series of stories about the masked adventurer THE RAPIER, and his climatic battle in 1940’s Los Angeles against a very real evil mastermind, whose nefarious plan causes Jason Graves aka The Rapier to evolve from Hollywood bad boy actor just playing the role of a hero, to him becoming a full-fledged costumed vigilante.

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

It was a nice apartment inside. But outside it was still an old motel, decaying concrete and rusty iron staircases. When the passing traffic had stopped paying to stay the night some realty corporation bought the place, sprayed some paint on the building and waited for it to fall apart. The people who could afford an outing stopped coming, and the people who couldn’t afford to get out moved in.

Some of them brought pets.

The cats outside the door were hungry again. Robbie didn’t have to hear their voices to know that. They were always hungry. He knew as soon as he stepped outside he’d be blasted by the grating yowls that pass for begging amongst felines demanding to be fed.

When the cats had first moved in he had tried to ignore them, but eventually the begging kittens grew into aggressive panhandlers, their repetitive mewing transformed to a sonic assault. So he’d taken some scraps out to them. Feeding the cats had turned into an everyday thing, and now they were surrogate pets.

“Morning, Red. Morning, Black.” The two cats ignored him, devouring everything in the bowl before he had even gotten out the door.

He noticed the trash bags piled on his neighbor’s front porch, as if the extra hundred feet to the dumpster was just too far to carry them, their green plastic stretched transparently thin near the holes where too much garbage had been stuffed in, the edges of the holes frayed where the cats had clawed, searching for food or playing with vermin.
The front gate was still open, so on his way out Robbie made sure to close it because, unlike his neighbor, he didn’t want to invite every crack addict in the neighborhood in to rob the place. The two cats followed him to the corner and then scattered off to beg from the other neighbors.

Perry awoke to a brilliant light in her face. “Great!” she mumbled through sleep-burdened lips. “I’ve landed in a world where fireflies rule and people are the annoying bugs in your face!” She pulled her head back, giving the-no other name for it entered her dream heavy mind yet-bug the chance to fly away. She tried swatting it away, but it didn’t as much as flutter. She reached out and actually touched it, tried to push it, to force it to move. The longer she touched it the more it burned her. Forced to finally pull her hand away, all she gained was a blister on her finger. She hadn’t managed to move the immobile bug one centimeter.

Frustrated, a feeling she often felt after first waking up in whatever new world the day brought her, Perry sat up, avoiding the bright dot in the air. As she moved, though, she hit another one with the side of her head. They were everywhere! Finally on her feet, she surveyed her new surroundings. She saw glimmering dots like her little bug as far as the eye could see. It was almost as if the night sky had dropped to a touching distance. That was one of the two things she somehow knew. It was definitely night time wherever she was. And she was in a city. The buildings lingered in the darkness, but only enough to know they were there. It was more of what she sensed, the hard corners of brick and mortar, the glass and shades of windows, the rhythm of streets and alleys, all this she sensed in the oddly punctuated darkness.

After a few minutes lost in the newness of the moment, another feeling familiar to her, Perry noticed things around her. She was on top of a roof, a very flat roof. She crept over to the edge trying as best as she could to avoid the burning, unmoving dots. One nicked her ear. She jumped off the roof without thinking how far down it was. Perry had jumped off so many things in her lifetime that distance down almost didn’t matter. She was so good at landing the fall was of little consequence.

When she hit the ground this time, she slipped and pitched forward. She stopped mid fall by catching onto two tables that were on both sides of her. Her feet flew into the air and she was able to push off the two tables, flip, and land on the doormat between said tables. “Again, landing like a pro,” she bragged out loud. Of course, she silently noted, it was only about a seven foot drop. “Must be a world of shorter than average folks,” she mused, laughing at her own joke.

The clack-clack-clack of high heels upon the black and white marble floor got the attention of every male ear in the City Room of The New York Paladin and every male head swiveled to cast at least one eye upon the person making said clacks. These being newspapermen and rather a direct and somewhat coarse bunch, the sounds of appreciative wolf-whistles were not a surprise. The secretaries who worked in The City Room were used to hearing this masculine din and grinned good-naturedly, but the current recipient of this crude praise threw a furiously angry glare around the room. She searched nameplates on each and every desk until she found the one she wanted, walking up and down the rows of desks occupied either by gum-cracking secretaries or cigar-smoking men barking into telephones or pounding away at their battered black Underwood typewriters. The large circular windows looked out on the New York skyline, bright early morning sunshine streaming in, cutting though the cigar and cigarette smoke that seemed to inhabit the spacious room like a permanent fog, despite the best efforts of the perpetually turning ceiling fans.

New York City, 1929.

The nameplate read Archibald Bodine and the man who sat with his feet up on the desk and talking into the phone looked more like a boxer or soldier than a reporter. A two-day stubble of beard covered his cheeks and chin. His tan double-breasted suit was well-cut and of good style but looked as if he’d slept in it for a week. A fedora pushed back his close-cropped auburn hair.

"Look, Gummy, how long y’know me? Six years, about, right? In all that time, I ever stiff you on a wager?" Archibald Bodine grew quiet, listening to the angry torrent of words that gobbled out of the receiver.

"Okay, okay, that was just the one time! An’ you know why I hadda stiff you that time. The missus was-"